


Forgotten

by tardisswimmingpool



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Greg Lestrade - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisswimmingpool/pseuds/tardisswimmingpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg gets hurt while out on an assignment. Mycroft is overjoyed when he wakes up, but Greg doesn't remember who he is. Or who anyone is. And he wakes up screaming sometimes. Mycroft is faced with the challenge of watching his husband attempt to regain his memory, and he's forced to work with the one person he despises the most in order to bring his best friend back to him-his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In progress...Hey, guys, sorry it's taking a little while. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be put up. This week is weird, and my birthday is this week, so I may not work on it :( 11/17/14

Chapter 1

Life. I’ve never really been able to wrap my mind around the concept. To me, life has always just been a straight progression from the day you were born to the day you die. That was all, and everything that happened in between was insignificant. Necessary evils.

I never really thought much about the importance of life. It was more of just existing than anything. I get up every morning, I go to work, I prevent England from falling. That’s not living. So what is? Collecting memories and experiences that you think you will remember forever?

I never knew what a good memory was until I met Greg. Most of what happened to me in the past is blocked out. I trained myself to do that because I was sick and tired of being bombarded with depression every time I woke up in the morning. There was never a day when I would want to get up because it would all flow back. At some point I stopped crying about it because I knew it wouldn’t do anything. And from there, I went from being sad to being angry. Angry about everything. But Greg changed all that.

But back to remembering. What if you don’t remember? I guess it’s not a big deal. Small unimportant details. It won’t matter in 20 years what the movie you saw on your third date was. It won’t matter what kind of soda your boyfriend ordered. What size of popcorn you shared. None of that is remotely important.

But what if you forget your partner’s name? (Ok, well, maybe if you are drunk.)

How about forgetting absolutely everything you ever did together in the past three years of marriage?

What if your husband doesn’t even remember who you are?

What if he looks at you like you are a stranger, and he screams when you try to touch him?

Your best friend….losing absolutely everything you worked so hard to accomplish. Friendship. Acceptance. Happiness. Love. It’s all gone, and you think to yourself, “I might as well be dead.”

Ha, I don’t even know why I’m here really. I keep looking over at Gregory-just as handsome as ever, despite the purplish spots on his face where he had been hit. My husband…my husband. I keep saying the word to myself because I still find it hard to believe that this dorky goofball would fall for somebody as hopeless and cold as me. I miss his stupid grin, and goo-goo eyes and his pathetic whimpering when he wants something from me. That adorable Gregory. My Gregory.

He’s asleep right now in his hospital bed, but I know that he won’t look at me when he wakes up. He doesn’t look at anybody. His eyes are usually dead and staring off at a wall. I try to talk to him sometimes (I even whisper to him some of our favorite inside jokes) but he doesn’t have the slightest clue where he is or who I am. It’s been like this for a week now. The only person he seems to respond to is Sherlock-I’m not quite sure why that is. It’s kinda hurtful to think that he would remember my brother over me, but I suppose I have no position to be angry. I can only imagine how scared he must be, but I know he’ll never show it. He’s too strong for that.

It was only a matter of time before this happened. I guess I tried not to think about it. It was his job afterall. Greg always went into a new case with such aplomb, and he never thought about the consequences. I remember him leaving that morning. He was gone for several days-a special case, you see. I suppose he was so excited because I was the one who sent him. He wanted to impress me like the heroic idiot he is.

To be honest, it was a stupid decision. I could’ve just as easily sent someone else, but, deep down, I thought he could do it. How was I to know that he would get shot? I didn’t know that he would fall to his knees and then be physically attacked. They found his face pretty badly beaten up, and he was unconscious. Backup came and took him to the hospital-the culprit hasn’t been caught yet. I remember them calling me-a week seems like a century ago at this point. I rushed to the hospital, and when he woke up, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just started crying, yet Greg said nothing.

I feel guilty. This is all my fault. I should’ve sent more associates with him. He shouldn’t have been out in the field without adequate backup. Why was I so….ugh, I was too wrapped up in Greg’s adorable confidence, and I think I trusted him too much. Is it possible to trust too much?

"Is he still asleep?" The voice scares me, and I turn around to see John in the doorway.

"Sorry," he says, "I should’ve knocked."

"No, no. It’s fine. Come in."

John had been visiting every day since the accident. He claimed that he was just a concerned friend, but I honestly think he keeps coming to make sure I don’t go off the deep end. Am I scared? Fuck, yes. My husband may never remember who I am ever again. Of course I’m going to be unstable. But I don’t need a babysitter. I appreciate the action though.

"Sit down," I motion to the seat next to me, and I attempt a smile.

"How is he?"

"No changes. He sleeps mostly," I sigh.

"Sherlock said that he responded a little yesterday," John says to try to brighten the mood a little.

"Yes, that’s because he only seems to remember Sherlock. He doesn’t remember me at all. I find it odd, don’t you?" I don’t mean for my voice to be angry, but it is indeed frustrating.

"I guess," John shrugs, " But you don’t know exactly what he’s thinking. They beat him up pretty bad. His brain’s probably dark on a lot of things. Perhaps he just saw something that reminded him of Sherlock, and that’s why he remembers him."

"Maybe," I say, "But it’s only the first few years of memories that he retained. Nothing recent. Nothing that matters."

"Does he remember his family?"

"When he first woke up, he was screaming something about his mother and how he needed to see her. He never said why. It was a very brief outburst, and then he just fell back asleep."

"What about his father?"

"Nothing. He never talked about his father anyway. He could be dead for all I know. His mother is in her 80s."

"That’s too bad…"

Silence.

"So…." John tries to look away from Greg’s unconscious body, "How are you holding up?"

"Me?"

"Ya, I mean, it must be hard."

"You have no idea," I say and bite my lip, "Everything we worked for. It’s gone, and it may never come back."

"Don’t think like that. You have to stay positive. He needs that."

"I suppose."

"So have you left the hospital since the accident?"

"I’ve been staying in the hotel next door. I put Anthea in charge. I’m trusting that my brother won’t do anything idiotic while I’m here."

"Nothing I know of so far. I think he’s actually concerned."

"That’d be surprising…"

Over the course of my entire life, I have never once seen my brother show any sense of compassion for me. It was almost like suicide to tell him I was getting married. Besides the fact that me showing any sort of feelings was unacceptable in Sherlock terms, he had also always hated Greg. He kept calling him inferior and an inexperienced inspector. Along with a list of other adjectives that Greg didn’t even know, so that just added to Sherlock’s claim. It was so frustrating. Honestly, the night of the marriage, I thought he was going to follow us to the hotel and strangle me in my sleep. Being gay was not even close to his priorities to hate upon. It was almost like he completely ignored that part.

"He doesn’t really hate Lestrade as much as he seems too. I think he’s just jealous."

"Jealous? I don’t think the word is even in Sherlock’s vocabulary."

"Or maybe he’s just bad at accepting change," John adds, "But it’s not about Greg. He can hate him all he wants, and it won’t change the fact that he’s worried about you."

"No offense, but I find that very hard to believe."

"You’ve got to give him more credit, Mycroft. In the few years that I lived with him, I learned that Sherlock’s not really as bad as people think."

"A few years? Try a whole lifetime. John, Sherlock is a heartless, manipulative bastard, and that’s never going to change."

"Isn’t that what you used to say about yourself?" John points out, "People can change."

"I didn’t change, John. I was always this way. I just didn’t know it. Insecurity. Prevents you from being who you are… And I don’t want to talk about my brother anymore, if that’s ok."

"Alright…"

I stand up and walk over to Greg’s bedside, rubbing his hair affectionately. It’s so soft, and I miss burying my face in it as I kiss the top of his head when he’s lying in my arms. He is breathing so softly, and I can tell he is in a deep sleep. It’s probably for the best. He needs it. He’s always so upset when he’s awake. Although it isn’t expressed orally, you can just see it in his face. Somewhere behind that dead expression is him breaking. I know. I know he’s in there. Lost somewhere. I can tell he’s searching for those memories. Nobody else knows though. They all see him as an empty shell. What do they know? Nothing. He’s in there, I know it. I know him. I know he’ll recover.

"I’ve never seen him sleeping so peacefully," I try to laugh, "Most of the time he’s tossing and squirming and grabbing onto me. And then he starts snoring."

I never thought I would miss the sound of Greg’s snoring. It’s like a car engine roaring. Ha, I considered taping his mouth shut and forcing him to breathe through his nose. I tried once, but he woke up and bit me. Then he started chasing me around the house, saying he was a lion, and I was an antelope. Silly, childish even. I never thought I’d resort to such over-exaggerated displays of affection. It was like one of those romantic comedies that only received two stars. I take pride in those two stars.

"Have you ever felt so lost that you don’t even know what to think anymore?" it was a stupid question really because the obvious answer was Sherlock’s fall from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital those many years ago.

But his response was a pleasant surprise. Well, maybe not pleasant. Unexpected for sure.

"When I joined the war," he says and pauses for a moment, "Everything I thought about myself, about life, about the way the world works. Gone in an instant as soon as I set foot on that battle field. All that innocence disappeared, and I was left with, what I’m assuming, was the real me. And I’m not certain if that’s a good thing or not," he tells me, "That innocence. It was a chunk of my life that suddenly meant nothing in the grand scheme of things."

"Do you still miss the war?"

"Occasionally," John says, "Hell, that’s why Sherlock believes I joined up with him. I need the excitement in my life."

"But don’t you ever think about the danger he puts you in? What if one day you get out of bed, and you don’t go back. You get shot down. Everything goes black, and then your whole plan for life is just torn to shreds."

"You’re afraid, I get it," he reaches over and grabs my hand-nobody’s ever done that before except for Greg. "But fear is your downfall. You have to remember that."

"Were you afraid in the war?"

"Hell ya," he looks at me like I’m crazy, "And to answer your next question, yes, following Sherlock around is fucking insane and terrifying. But it doesn’t matter because he’s got my back. He’s not afraid, so I’m not," he says, "Greg is terrified, Mycroft. You gotta be strong for the both of you."

"I know," I say, "I know."

He pats my leg sympathetically and checks his watch.

"I should go," he informs me, "I have appointments scheduled for later this afternoon."

"Ya," I laugh, "Sometimes I forget you’re a doctor. What with all the superhero missions you go on with Sherlock. The dynamic duo."

"Shh," he whispers, "You’ll blow my cover," and he smiles before bidding me farewell.

"Call me if there’s any changes."

"Will do."

I’d be lying if I said that John’s talk didn’t make me feel a little better. Although, nothing can distract me fully from this reality. He was right regarding the fact that I had to stay strong for the two of us though. Greg is floating somewhere in the darkness, and I have to stay in the light. I have to bring the light to him, or he’s never going to find it. It’s up to me to bring him back. Somehow.

"Mom?" Greg is mumbling in his sleep again. "Mom."

"She’s coming later," I whisper to him, but he says nothing. "I love you," I press my lips against his temple. "I always will. Even if you don’t know it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft talks to a nurse about Greg

(“Gregory, stop it,” I squirmed as I fought his reaching arms. “I don’t want to!”

"Oh, come on, Mycroft. Just put it on. It’s Halloween," Greg said and continued to try and force the pirate cap on my head.

"So what? It’s just a poor excuse for children to get candy," I laughed and shoved him a little.

"Please, Mikey, it’s cute," Greg plead.

"Cute? Since when does that word remotely begin to describe me?"

The struggle continued until I grabbed the hat and forced it onto Greg’s head.

"There," I said proudly, "It looks so much better on you."

He smirked at me, and the next thing I knew, I was held up to the wall. And he was kissing me.)

Apparently I had fallen asleep because the nurse shook me awake, and I am now looking at the clock which reads three hours past the last time I can remember. It’s not much of a surprise, really. I haven’t particularly slept well in a few days, and my eyes have been bloodshot. It was better for me to regain my strength, I suppose, but I feel guilty for having fallen asleep on Greg. What if he had woken up? I guess it wouldn’t have made much difference. According to the nurse, he had stirred a little while I was dozing, but he is still unconscious as of right now.

"How are you doing?" The nurse asks.

"Alright," I rub at my eyes, "Did anyone stop by while I was asleep?"

"Molly Hooper, but she said she’d come back later since you were catching up on some well-needed rest," she put emphasize on the "well-needed." "You should really take a break, and go for a walk. You shouldn’t be locking yourself in here all day. It’s not good for you."

"I know," I say, "But he needs me."

The nurse smiles at me and offers for me to go eat lunch with her-it is on her break. Although I really don’t approve of leaving my husband alone in this condition, my stomach is growling like a lion and I haven’t eaten since dinner last night. I didn’t eat breakfast because I felt nauseous this morning. However, all of that is gone now, and I feel like I could eat a whole ham.

"Thank you," I tell her, "I appreciate it."

"No problem," she says, "My name’s Jamie in case you didn’t catch it."

"Oh," I feel guilty for never having asked, "I apologize."

"Don’t worry about it, Mr. Holmes," she giggles as if it had never been a concern and she just wants to mess with me.

"Mycroft," I say as I try to process whether or not she is trying to flirt with me. "Call me, Mycroft."

All giggling aside, she shakes my hand and leads me down the hallway. We pass the cafeteria, and I grab at her sleeve to pull her back.

"Oh hell no," she looks at me like I’m crazy, "I eat that stuff almost every day. Tastes like cardboard. Nah, we got over an hour. I want some chips."

"Are you allowed to leave?"

"I don’t see why not," she laughs.

The two of us exit the hospital and walk down the street to the fish shop on the corner. The food is nothing special, I know. Greg used to take me there all the time specifically because he loved my face when I eat stale chips. Although, surprisingly, the fish is wonderful today. Or maybe it is just because I had been yearning for something besides apple sauce and kids-sized chicken strips(the only edible things in the hospital cafeteria besides cookies). Maybe Jamie was right-it wasn’t healthy to stay there.

The two of us sit across from each other awkwardly as we eat. I watch her chew a bite of fish and swallow, her eyes meeting mine. It reminds me of Greg and mine’s first date. Only Greg wasn’t as clean of an eater. Whenever we ate fish, he would keep getting crumbs all over the front of his sweater, and he’d try to nonchalantly brush them off in an attempt to save his dignity. It would be too late, and I would always just laugh at him.

"So how long have the two of you been together?" Jamie finally says.

"5 years," I say, "Married for 3."

"That’s sweet," she tells me, "That’s true love there."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Oh you know. People these days. They meet one day and the next they are snogging on their honeymoon. People don’t appreciate love anymore. Probably why there are so many divorces."

"Ya, I guess so."

I remember that fight we had once when me and Greg threatened for divorce. It was a stupid threat because we both knew that we wouldn’t be able to live without each other. But I don’t think I have ever seen Greg so angry. I can’t even recall what the fight was about, it was so long ago. All I know is that I still wake up in pools of sweat sometimes because I had dreamt that he was yelling at me, and then I’ll be relieved when I see him sleeping peacefully next to me. It’s terrifying to think that we could’ve left each other. Then what would we be? I’m nothing without him.

"But you two are different," Jamie says, "I can tell. You two are special."

"How so?"

"I don’t know," she pauses, "Just the way you look at him. I’ve never seen a person look at another person with the same level of concern and love as you do. It’s almost like you are looking at yourself, and you’ll do anything to protect yourself."

I don’t answer.

"That’s the way I looked at my brother before he died," her voice softens, "it was like a part of me was snatched right from underneath."

"Your brother died?"

"Yes," she says, "He was 19. I was 23. We used to be so close, but we had drifted apart. It wasn’t until he died that I really realized how much I loved him. I found myself at his bedside every night while he was in the hospital, and I would look at him just as you do with Mr. Lestrade."

"That must’ve been hard," I sympathize with her.

"Oh, yes," she sniffles a little, "but Kade had no chance. He was dead upon diagnosis. That’s the difference between you and me, you see. You still have hope, and you can’t give up now. He’ll pull through."

"Sometimes I have a hard time believing that," I sigh, "It’s been a week, and he still doesn’t wake up without screaming."

"It’s a reflex as the brain tries to regain what it has lost. How would you feel if you suddenly forgot everything? It’d be pretty scary I would think. I don’t blame him. Poor guy."

"Everything…." I mutter, "It’s kinda funny how you think you’ll be with someone forever and then suddenly they’re gone."

"But he’s not gone."

"He might as well be," I close my eyes, "if he can’t remember everything dear in his life then what is the point. Losing all of that, he might as well be dead. You can’t even imagine how hard it is to see him like that."

"You can’t give up like that," she firmly says, "Amnesia can be temporary. Based on the injuries, it should be temporary. It’s just a matter of when. Not if. When."

"You’re right though," I tell her, "it is like losing part of yourself."

"You’ll get it back. You just have to keep your hand extended and someday we can pull him out of that darkness. That’s what therapy is for. We’re get him started as soon as we can get it approved by the doctor."

"When is that?"

"Soon enough."

"Thank you," I say.

"It’s my job."

"No, thank you for taking me out and being so kind to me. You have no idea how much that means to me."

"It looked like you needed a friend," she smiles at me and urges me to eat something. "Keep your strength up."

I sigh and take a bite. I suddenly feel guilty because I was still focused on myself when Jamie had trusted something with me.

"I’m sorry about your brother," I say after I swallow.

"Everyone has their time," she says softly, "it’s not Greg’s yet."

Lunch was delightful. We had brightened the mood a little by diverting the subject to things besides Greg or Jamie’s brother. We talked about her job at the hospital and mine in the government-er, rather as much as I could reveal without violating specific classification rules. We shared some funny stories, and the overall experience was quite lovely. Although, every fantasy must come to an end, and reality always squeezes back through the cracks in our happiness.

Jamie walks back to Greg’s room with me and bids me farewell with a slight kiss to my cheek. I am so embarrassed because my cheeks are flushing. I’ve never been kissed by a girl before. She just giggles and disappears out of the room.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," I hear her say.

I turn and realize that Greg is sitting upright in his bed. My smile disappears. He stares at me, and I try to come up with something to say. But what’s the point? So I say nothing and sit down in the chair across the room.

"Who are you?" He keeps asking me.

I sigh.

"No one."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm really sorry, but chapter 4 might be delayed for a little while. I got a shit-load of stuff to do this week, and I'm brain dead. But I have a three-day weekend, so I'll try to get something done then, I promise! I do have it started tho.

It's dark. It's so very dark, and yet I refuse to open my eyes for even the slightest second. For as long as they remain shut, I know where I am. Even the tiniest peak is what transports me to the reality of this strange world I have found myself in. I don't know how long I've been here nor how much time has passed since I was somewhere I recognized. But I feel so alone.

I remember waking up in a hospital bed with a crowd of people around me. The shock caused me to scream, and arms went flailing to try to restrain me. I fought them, but it was of no use. I was thrown back against my pillow, and they held me down until I calmed myself. They kept asking me if I knew who I was which I thought was silly. I think I should know who I am. The real question is, why am I here? 

I've been informed that I was injured out on the field. Apparently, I had been on a case. And suddenly, I became very scared because I had no recollection of anything the doctors were telling me. It seemed all surreal. None of it remotely within reach of my psychological grasp.

And so here I am, drifting along in a sea of nothingness. I keep hearing voices whispering things in my ear. Soft, sweet, sorrowful words. 

A man keeps coming to see me. I've seen his face only a few times for he always has his head hung low, and he mumbles things to himself as if I am not listening to him. By the looks of him, he doesn't seem to realize I watch him. I'm always watching him, even if my eyes aren't open to really see him. 

He tells me that his name is Mycroft. An odd name, really. Tears slide from his cheeks whenever he looks at me. I study him sometimes as he glances at me, but he never says anything when he knows I'm awake unless it is I who speaks first. I ask him where my mother is because I wish to see her. He's always telling me she'll be coming to visit, but she hasn't come yet. But I miss her, and I need to tell her I love her. I think about it every day that passes, and I know she'll come for me. Because the strange thing is, she's the only thing left that connects me to a world I've seemed to have lost, and I think she might be able to bring me back.

But back to the man. He's tall with light brown hair. He's always wearing a suit-a business man, I presume. His eyes are a beautiful shade of blue that remind me of crystals-something I don't usually notice in the men I come across daily- and he is always carrying around a black umbrella that he twirls around when he enters the room. My brain cannot picture him in any major memories, and yet I feel there is something important about him. Something that connects him to the range of thoughts in the core of my brain that I've been striving to reach. 

"I love you," those words again-soft breath in my ear. "Please, Greg."

It's him. He's standing over me-I can feel his presence. I know he's preparing his departure for I feel his lips touching my forehead. My body cringes a little. I imagine he is confused. But no one is more confused than I. This man...he is close to me. Nobody has to tell me that. I can just tell. But he's more than just close. I can tell by the way he speaks to me and by the small gestures that he makes. Even by the touch of his skin and the way he breathes when he's near me. These are not characteristics of a stranger or even an acquaintance. No. A best friend, a lover perhaps. A lover....but how could I forget someone so crucial? So personal? 

That's the question I guess. How could I forget any of this? It seems pretty impossible from my standards. I guess you could say I remain in denial about it. You'd probably be right. Because the truth is, I don't know what to think anymore. I just want to go home. 

My heart is aching, and I don't even know why. My eyes open, and it's concluded that the man is gone. He is replaced with another visitor. This man I have also seen before from past visits, but the odd thing is that he seems so familiar. His name is Sherlock. I remember him only very little. He's a detective, and I've worked with him once or twice, but the long dark coat and scraggly black hair still exist as just a shadow of something I am trying to find, but just can't. Although, he's the closest thing I have right now to a true memory besides my mother. 

He never really says anything, but he sits in the chair and stares at me-studying me. His eyes are like scanners as he analyzes every aspect about me. Although a medical degree is not in his list of presumed accomplishments, I have to say that his opinions interest me, and his debates with the doctors give me some hope for a conclusion to be drawn for treatment. 

Treatment....I'm sick, aren't I? But to be sick, I would have to be alive, and I'm not even certain of that anymore. Nor of anything. I'm a shell of a human being. 

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," I hear Jamie, one of my nurses, enter. 

There is a mumble of a response from the detective. From there is silence, but it doesn't take long for him to start arguing about something or another. Jamie, like many of the other nurses, had accustomed herself to these daily rants, meaning she is just standing there and listening. That's really all you could do with this guy anyway.

I'd be lying if I say I am not intrigued by this Mr. Holmes. Despite the fact that he seems more familiar than anything else in this new dimension, he is also so much different personality-wise than anyone I've come to meet.

The odd thing though, despite my attraction to him, this "Old Greg" so-to-speak apparently hated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I find this hard to grasp. I should know who I like and don't like. Shouldn't I? Or were my opinions on people completely wiped from my mind as well? Because I don't hate Mr. Holmes at all. In fact, perhaps he can help me remember. Even if it's just the tiniest bit of this life I am missing. 

But maybe I don't need to go back. Or maybe it's that I don't WANT to. Maybe I can start a new life. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Can it be possible that this is a chance for me to make my life better than it was? 

But, I can't do that without the guilt that follows me. And even thinking about the possibility makes me feel selfish. 

The man with the umbrella...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know that Sherlock seems like a real dick in this chapter, but the reason for that is that I wanted to express some raw emotions from Mycroft.

Although it hasn't been overly long, I feel as though a part of me has been missing for eternity, so receiving news that Greg's therapy is scheduled to begin this morning can do nothing else than elicit a smile from the realm of darkness my brain is trapped in. More than a smile actually. I'm overjoyed, if not a little anxious. But I'm also a little worried. My reasoning being, what if the exercises do nothing? Of course, results are not instant, but still. And then there's Sherlock...

If it was my choice, I would request that my brother be banned from even coming within 500 feet of the hospital while Greg remains admitted. All he is going to do is mess with him, and that is not what anyone needs. Not to mention, he's petulant and impatient. But, unfortunately for me, the doctors think it best to attempt to gather what remains of Greg's memories to conjure up treatment strategies. They believe we might be able to find a piece of him through Sherlock's help-much to my dismay.

I am supposed to meet my brother in the lobby. I specifically told him to wait for me before going up because I don't trust him. But of course, he isn't there when I walk in through the front door.

"Excuse me?" I ask the woman at the front desk. 

She ignores me for a moment while she shuffles some papers and places some things on her desk in a different order until it was to her liking. Then she looks up at me, her expression lacking any sort of enthusiasm or hospitality. 

"Can I help you?" Her voice isn't any less dull. 

"Um, yes, have you possibly spoken to a Mr. Sherlock Holmes? That's S.H.E.R.L.O.C.K. Holmes. Did he come through here?" 

"Listen, man. I don't pay that close attention to the people that come through here. I just direct people places," she says and begins to smack her gum.

"Well, did anyone ask to see Mr. Gregory Lestrade?" 

She mumbles something about a man with curly black hair and a long black coat with an attitude, so I take that as it being Sherlock, 

I can't believe he would just go up...actually I can. He's my younger brother and not once in his life has he ever listened to me. I just hope he didn't do anything dumb. 

According to the doctors, Sherlock has made impromptu visits on his own without me present, and that leaves me slightly concerned. Does he talk to Greg? And if so, did it do anything? Perhaps he really has no effect on the progress. If he did, wouldn't something have happened by now? So do we really need him? I might be paranoid, but I just don't like the idea.

As expected, I enter Greg's room to find my brother making himself comfortable in the chair in the corner. 

"I told you to wait," I say sternly, but he pays no mind.

Greg is actually awake this morning. I know he's staring at me as I make my way across the room, but I take it upon myself to make it look like I don't notice. I also try my best to appear calm although I am furious.

"I thought it was a pretty straightforward demand."

"You have to speak up, brother mine. I must not of heard you correctly because I heard go ahead and go up. I thought to myself, I can't disobey the British government, so here I am," his grin of satisfaction is starting to get old these days, and I glare at him. 

"Is it too late to take you off the visitors list?" I say through gritted teeth.

"Go ahead. Like it matters to me if your husband remembers you."

My eyes are like daggers.

"Don't play that card."

"Too late."

"I still await the day when you start acting like a grownup."

"You'll be waiting a long while, Mycroft. In fact, shouldn't it be you who needs to grow out of this fantasy? Love, family. Since when has either of those things mattered to you?"

"Sherlock, don't do this now."

"Whatever happened to caring is not an advantage?"

"You say one more word, and I swear I will...."

"Who are you?" Greg's soft voice interrupts me. 

I turn my head to look at him, and I try to form a smile despite my irritation.

I whisper to him, "My name is Mycroft, remember?" and I walk over to stroke his hair.

"Mycroft?" He cocks his head and stares at me but shows no other reaction to my touch.

Watching him draws forth the tears in my eyes, and I do everything possible to hide them from Sherlock's judging gaze. 

"Yes," I say, my voice cracking. 

Sherlock starts chuckling, and makes no effort to try to hide it. I swear, the man is completely heartless.

"That's it," I shouted. "Get out of here." 

"I've only been here five minutes."

My voice explodes like a gunshot-without warning and causing shock amongst everyone within the proximity of Greg's room. 

"Get the fuck out of here!" 

"Mr. Holmes," Jamie rushes into the room and grabs my arm to prevent me from making another stride towards my brother. "Calm down. You're disturbing the other patients." 

Sure enough, I can hear mumbles of complaining echoing from the neighboring rooms, but that won't stop me from shrugging her away and threatening to throw Sherlock out the window. 

"Some things just don't change, do they?," he says, quite satisfied. 

"Why is he here?" I demand an answer from Jamie, but whip my head around to face Sherlock before she can answer," I don't want you here. You're not doing anything for Greg. You never even liked him. All you're doing is causing him stress and confusing him even more. What kind of person are you? It's like you don't even care! I knew John was lying when he said you were different. You will never change."

"Mycroft," I hear Greg say to himself, but I pay no mind due to my anger.

"Get him out of here!" I proclaim. "Please!"

Sherlock studies me for a moment, and then walks past the nurse to exit the room. She made an attempt to get him to stay, but everyone knows that if Sherlock valued his life, he would leave. And that's the only thing Sherlock values.

I feel my head getting fuzzy, and I stumble towards a chair, collapsing in it and burying my face in my hands while I cry. I am not sure exactly why I'm crying. It's sort of automatic these days. I don't think I've ever cried as much as I have in the past week. 

"Mycroft, are you alright?" Jamie is asking.

I shake my head because, despite how much I want to be, I know I am not.

She never asks me about my outburst. I suppose she is feeling sympathy for me, so she doesn't argue. Although, I feel guilty.

Contrary to what I want to believe, Sherlock is intelligent. That's an understatement, really. He's a genius. And only a genius could know how to reason with people. Sherlock could quite possibly be the key to bringing Greg back. After all, he's the only one he seems to remember. It's just...I don't even know. He's so frustrating. And I know he just wants to mess with me, (that's probably what all the joking around was about) but...I suppose...if I really think about it, he might just possibly make me feel unimportant. 

I said it. 

"Do you want me to bring you some coffee?" Jamie asks.

I shake my head. 

"No," I tell her, "I just want to be alone."

"Ok," she says.

"Mycroft?" It's Greg's voice again.

"Yes?"

"Why are you upset?"

"Don't worry about me," I say gently, "Get some sleep. You need it." 

"Who are you, Mycroft?"

"Shh."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really short chapter, I know, but I wanted to get some more of Greg's thoughts in really quickly. 
> 
> Greg's POV

The nurses brought me a large, leather-bound book this morning, and they left it upon my nightstand. They didn't speak a word, but smiled briefly before leaving. I can't reach it, but I wait till the man with the umbrella returns to hand it to me.

His hand pats my hair, and he leaves me be with the book while he retreats to the corner of the room and watches me, intently. 

The book seems even larger in my hands, and I can see the words "Family" stitched onto the front cover-it's a photo album. 

"Open it," the man tells me.

I oblige, but I wish I didn't. 

Suddenly, I am bombarded with a wave of smiling faces and fun times that I can feel nagging at me from somewhere in my brain. I reach for it, but the ship that carries these memories is still off in the mist, drifting just beyond my grasp. 

I see myself staring up at me. Or maybe it isn't me. The old me? But isn't it still me? Have I changed? 

It seems so far off.

Next to me are dozens of pictures of the man with the umbrella. He's holding my hand. His arms are around my neck, and he's laughing. He's kissing my temple gently. I can see the love, the warmth, the joy. 

We were in love.

My eyes glance up at him, and I find myself studying him again.

I'm trying, I really am. The man wants me to remember. I'm trying desperately. Because, even if I want to start anew, I can't just turn my back on my life. My life...I want to know. I'm searching. And I know the man is waiting for me on the other side of this dark tunnel. He's waiting to grab my hand and welcome me. He's even here now to pull me along. 

But it's still miles ahead.

Deep sighs craw up my throat, but I swallow them back down.

.....so many smiling faces, but they aren't mine.


	6. Chapter 6

I can't tell if I'm asleep or not. I'm never quite certain anymore because everything feels like a dream to me. All so real, and yet so far from what I think is my life. And the shadows are everywhere, reminding me of what had been, but they are not clear enough to catch a glimpse of what they are trying to show me. And so they remain as they are-shadows.

I hear laughter. Ya, that's it. Laughter. I can hear it propelling itself through the darkness, but my ears cannot turn me in the direction it is coming from. My hands feel around for the source, but they keep grasping at empty air. 

"Hahahaa," it's ringing. 

Finally I see a light, and I walk towards it, not entirely sure where it is going to lead me. 

The light itself is faint, so I continue to feel around as I make my way along. The journey seems endless, and my feet feel like they aren't even moving, but finally my hand wraps around something that feels like a doorknob.

"Hello?" My hand clutches it and turns.

Suddenly, a bright light flashes in front of me, nearly blinding me, but then I see the outline of a person. It's me. Well not me, but another version of me, sitting on a front doorstep to an apartment and whistling. He's smiling, but I am almost certain it is not directed towards me. 

I look around, and I'm not quite sure where I am. I know it's in London because of the traffic and the many people rushing about to flag down the cabbies. I can smell freshly fried cod wafting from somewhere nearby, and my stomach growls. My attention does not avert from the other me, however.

This clone appears so much different than myself or what I think of is myself. Looking at his hair, it is combed back so nicely and it isn't as grey. His looks so soft, and my own hair is all scraggly and greasy for lack of washing. His clothes have been ironed and his chin is cleanly shaved. Glancing down, I remain in a smelly hospital gown and my face is all scratchy. 

There's a puddle on the sidewalk where I can see my reflection, and there is not a single thing that connects the two of us. My hands touch my face. When was the last time I smiled? I can't remember.

I squint through the light and realize that there is another man walking down the street. Like the other me, he switches off from grinning and whistling while he twirls an umbrella around with his fingers. It seems odd to be carrying around an umbrella because there isn't a cloud in the sky. No, just the bright yellow rays of the sun. The tune he is whistling is something I know very well, a children's nursery rhyme is all it is, but it always made me smile. 

"All around the mulberry bush..." 

I never did understand why the monkey was chasing the weasel...perhaps the weasel knew something that the monkey was searching for. 

The man approaches the other me, and I can now see his face more clearly. It's Mycroft. Ya...that was his name. Mycroft. 

"Lock yourself out again?" Mycroft asks, and the other me is blushing.

The two of them greet each other warmly with a kiss on the cheek and a hug before Mycroft opens the door for him. 

"After you," he says in a polite tone.

"What a gentleman," the other me nods and bows gently like a dork. "Thank you."

"Just go inside, ya idiot." 

They laugh.

I follow them into the house and hope that they don't see me. While Mycroft disappears into the kitchen, I watch as the other me reaches into his pocket and feels around for something. He pulls it out for a moment, and I can see that it is a leather box, but he stuffs it back before I can see what was in it. 

"Ay Myc!" I hear him call, and suddenly his facial expression seems a little nervous. 

"Yea?" 

The other me's hand keeps rustling in his pocket. I want to know what's in the box, but, all of a sudden, the scene is stripped from under me, and I find myself back in my hospital bed. 

I blink repeatedly, and it takes me a moment to adjust and realize that I hadn't been awake. In my hands remains the big leather book, and I remember that I had been looking at it before I fell asleep.

The book was open to a picture of a wedding. My wedding? 

"You're awake," it's Mycroft. 

"III..."

"Sherlock is coming back later. We're going to try the treatment again. I apologize for yelling before. He just frustrates me sometimes" he says and pulls up the chair from the corner so that he's sitting next to me. 

"Why do you hate him?"

He doesn't answer and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a chocolate bar. 

"I brought this for you. I know you're not supposed to have it, but what Jamie doesn't know won't hurt," he hands it to me.

"I know I haven't been of much help to you," he says, "All I've been doing is melting down and crying, and that's the opposite of what you need. I'm sorry. I just...I miss the Greg I knew."

I'm not sure how to respond, but I reach for his hand. It is almost like an automatic response, so I'm not certain I'm even doing it until I feel the warmth of his hand in mine.

"I'm here," I find myself saying. 

Mycroft smiles, but I know he is not convinced. Although, he doesn't say anything, and instead leans over to look at the page I have open in the photo album.

"I remember that day," he tells me. "Greg was such a goofball." 

"I was?"

He hesitates, but nods.

"Ya...you were," it seems hard for him to say it that way, but he continues, "I remember when you proposed. Haha. I was coming home from work. You had locked yourself out of the house again."

I tune out for a moment, and I just see the movement of his lips because I'm thinking. I don't know what to say or do because what Mycroft is explaining is exactly what I had seen in my dream. The box in the other me's pocket...it was an engagement ring. Mycroft....my husband. Mine....I kissed him. Yes. I did. Didn't I? 

"You were so nervous all of a sudden," Mycroft laughed, "and you ended up tripping on the carpet when you walked into the kitchen."

That's right....I did. I think I did. But...that can't...

"And you said that you loved me, and I just laughed because you told me that every day." 

He doesn't get to finish because Jamie enters the room. Mycroft takes the chocolate from me and hides it so we don't get in trouble. 

"Sherlock is in the lobby," she tells Mycroft.

He nods and lifts the photo album off of my lap. 

"Wait," I say.

"I'll be back," and he follows Jamie out of the room.


	7. Chapter 7

I can't help but be a little bit afraid of facing Sherlock as I make my way down to the lobby from Greg's room. Never before have I taken a second thought for my harsh words towards my brother, but he was a part of this too. He just wanted to help-or so I've been told. It was immature of me to chew him out as I did, and, as much as I hate to say it or even consider the possibility, I feel guilty. 

Jamie is walking with me and is continuously lecturing me about controlling my temper as if I didn't already know. I just nod calmly, and decide there's no reason to argue with her because she is right-I just hate hearing it out loud. 

As the lift doors open, I spot my brother in one of the armchairs in the waiting area. In his hands is some sort of science magazine that I soon recognize to be Sherlock's favorite magazine that he looks through monthly to pick out mistakes made by well-known scientists. The sad truth is that 99% of the markings he creates are legitimate corrections to clear mistakes made by proclaimed professionals. The other 1% is the occasional mustache that I find on some of the more renowned scientists' faces when they win some sort of prize. Sherlock always blames it on John. I swear, he really is a child sometimes. 

But I guess, given my outburst before, so am I.

He doesn't look up as I approach him and doesn't even seem to acknowledge I'm even standing there until I pull the magazine out of his hands and he mumbles a soft, "I was reading that." 

"Can I talk to you?" 

His facial expression isn't exactly overjoyed at the thought, but he does his usual sigh to tell me that he'll go through with the proposal. Although, I think he's actually mad I took his magazine because he wasn't finished correcting a spelling error of some Latin root. 

Jamie leaves us alone, and I lead my brother to the corner of the waiting area so we don't disturb anyone. I have to take precautions because I'm not sure how this is going to end up playing out.

I wouldn't be telling the truth if I said I'm certain of what I am going to say. I've never apologized to Sherlock in my life, and I'm not exactly sure how. 

He's not looking at me and is instead mumbling his mental count of people checking their phones while staring at the wall behind me. 5, 6, 7... 

"People really have nothing better to do with their lives..." he says, "8, 9."

"Look, Sherlock. I don't really know how to put this, but..."

Oh fuck it.

He's still not paying much attention to me, but I gather all my strength and reach out my arms to wrap around him. The touch is like burning in hot lava, getting punctured by a million needles, being stabbed in the back. I cringe at the sensation as I pull him closer into a hug. But suddenly it feels slightly calming. Sherlock seems to freeze, and I think he's on the verge of some sort of shock-induced coma before he wiggles his way out of my arms and just stares at me. Surprisingly this reaction takes a few moments.

He doesn't criticize me. He doesn't make any rude jokes. He just stares. I can see the curiosity flaming in his expression as if a hug was some new phenomenon that he just discovered and didn't truly understand. 

"That was unexpected," is all he says before he walks past me towards the lift.

I don't exactly know how to respond, but I can't help but smile a little. I don't even know why I'm smiling. I just am. 

"Hey, wait!" John comes running in through the front entrance just as the lift doors open, and we wait for him.

"Sorry I'm late. I couldn't seem to flag down a cab." 

"That's alright. Sherlock just got here," I glance at him, but neither of us acknowledge the previous event. 

We climb into the lift and I punch in Greg's floor number.

-

Greg is dozing when we return. Jamie had given him some pain medications, and I guess one of the side effects is drowsiness. I suggest we just wait a little while, but Sherlock insists we wake him. 

"Greg," I nudge him a little and his eyes flutter a bit. 

"Mycroft, he says.

"Yes," I tell him, "But I'm not staying for long. The nurses want you to talk to Sherlock."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, you know him."

"Yea."

"And his friend John."

"John?"

"John Watson."

"John," he repeats.

"Yes. And they are going to try to help. But I'm going to go take a walk. It's probably best for me to get some fresh air."

I decided it would be better if Sherlock just did whatever without me around, or I might get angry again. And I don't want to repeat that incident and risk stressing Greg out even more.

"But I..." He tries to say, but I silence him.

"Shh," I tell him, "Relax. I'll be back later."

He doesn't seem particularly happy that I am leaving again. I feel like he wants to talk to me, but I don't want to assume things. Still though, there was that conversation we had earlier. He seemed to be connecting himself into the stories I told him about the Greg I know. He kept referring to himself as this image of Greg. I don't know if that means anything. Perhaps he's just trying to grasp a reality, but I feel deep down that he wants to tell me something. Maybe he's picking up on something. 

Maybe.


	8. Chapter 8

It doesn't feel right to be lying here. It feels unusual, surreal. I almost feel as if I'm committing some sort of crime. And yet, here I am. 

Never in my life would I have imagined myself lying in the arms of another man, cuddling and kissing on our wedding night. I never thought I'd cry either, but just seeing him-so beautiful-standing in front of me and those two simple words that will bond us forever.... I just couldn't help myself. 

I think to myself of what I did to deserve someone as compassionate and considerate as Mycroft to share my life with. And he's handsome too which I consider a bonus. But, in all honesty, I don't deserve such a privilege. I do not believe that I should be the one holding the hand of such a person. Am I truly worthy of calling this man mine? What if I am not good enough for him and I do something that wrecks everything? It sounds like something that would happen to me. It always does. Fortune barely favors me, but could this be the one time when something goes right? 

Right...

I lie in my bed with these thoughts swirling through my brain, and I hope and pray that Mycroft does not notice my uncertainties. I do not wish to worry him for it is our wedding night, and all that we should be thinking about is being happy. 

I try, but the anxiety is still there.

"Myc?" I whisper to him.

He snuggles closer to me and mumbles a soft "yes" into my naked shoulder blade.

"Do you love me?" 

"Of course I do. Are you insane? I married you today didn't I?" He is chuckling, but I am serious.

"I want to hear you say it."

"Ok," he turns my head a little so that he can reach my lips, and he mutters the words softly into my mouth before kissing me gently. "I always will."

-

I feel the images fading in and out as Sherlock turns the pages of the photo album. I don't know what it is, but his presence makes me feel connected somehow. I'm not certain how exactly to explain it, but I'm starting to see a light. 

We take a break for awhile, and the detective leaves the room to brainstorm other tactics that don't involve him gagging at my supposed happy memories. He leaves me with John Watson whom I've come to discover is very quiet. He sits and watches Sherlock mostly, listening intently to each and every word he tells me. His eyes study the two of us with fascination, but he doesn't speak when Mr. Holmes is talking. It's rather odd really given how he's a doctor, but I suppose every good doctor knows to speak only when it's appropriate. And I can tell that he's somewhat intimidated by Sherlock. Oddly though, I'm not.

I haven't spoken to Mr. Watson very much. He's accompanied visits before, but I don't think I've seen him alone. 

"Is it working?" He asks me out of the blue to break the silence that had fallen as soon as Sherlock left the room. 

I shrug. I suppose it was. The encouragement definitely was sparking some memories, but I'm still not certain how to describe it to people. I mean, these weird dreams, lights at the end of dark hallways. Who's going to believe that? It sounds like utter nonsense. They'll think I'm delirious. I probably would too.

"It's still a little fuzzy," is all I say.

It's not a total lie. It is fuzzy. I have these dreams, and I'm not even entirely certain if they are real or if my subconscious is just making up memories to compensate. Maybe people's voices drift into my ears when I'm sleeping, and the images just accompany it. But it feels so real. I feel like I can step back into these images in the photo album, but I still have the nagging feeling that it isn't me. But it is. It's like a war inside my head. Back and forth. Real, imaginary. There aren't even words to describe what I'm feeling.

I can tell that Dr. Watson isn't exactly satisfied with my answer, but that's really all I'm willing to say. It's all I am able to say. 

"How's your injury?" He asks.

People have been spending so much time on my cognitive abilities that I almost completely forgot about the gunshot wound. Honestly, compared to everything else, it didn't cross my mind very much. I suppose it still burns, but my attention had never been on it, so I don't feel the pain.

"I don't notice it," I tell him, "Mind's on other things."

He nods.

"Understandable."

"Do you know Mycroft Holmes well?" I ask him out of curiosity.

"Only as long as I've been with Sherlock."

"Oh, so the two of you...."

"No, not like that," his voice trails off. "We sort of work together."

"But you do know Mycroft?"

"I guess so."

"Is he a good man?" 

I don't really know why I'm asking. It's not really curiosity as much as I want closure to my uneasiness about him. The man with the umbrella...Mycroft Holmes.

"I like to think he is," John replies. "I mean, all these photographs pretty much show that. You had a good life."

I nod. It was a dumb question. But the word "had" really bothers me.

You had a good life.

Sherlock doesn't return for awhile, and I doze off. 

When I wake, John is gone as well, and I am alone. I don't question it, but I do glance around the room to see if they left me anything. The chocolate bar that Mycroft had brought is lying on the nightstand by my head with a little note that said Jamie approves with a smiley face next to it. I reach for it and take a bite. It melts in my mouth, and I suddenly get the feeling of how much I missed the taste. It makes me feel happy inside and free, and yet....it makes me start crying.

I remember myself asking Mycroft in the dream if he loved me. His words are like silk, and I can feel his teeth biting at my lip, and begging for me to kiss him. 

It's so real.

I want it back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry guys. Really short chapter. I haven't been very inspired to write this week...

Ha, I guess I have the pleasure of saying I had forgotten what it was like to wake up feeling so desperate and insignificant on my birthday. The past few years, I usually woke to the smell of bacon sizzling and Greg's humming to some top-10 hit I had never heard, but now all I could smell and hear were cabs and their exhaust as they zoomed past outside. I used to walk into the kitchen and see Greg's goofy grin, and he'd start singing the song he'd previously been humming as he hands me a plate and some coffee. Greg was never the best singer, but I miss his voice. I miss noises. There's just silence. The apartment is so empty-oh ya, I nearly forgot to mention that I had returned to the flat last night. I had kissed Greg goodnight and was heading back to my hotel room, but something led me to a cab instead, and I found myself here. 

I opened the door, and I took in an overwhelming smell of Greg's cologne that had been congregating in the empty suite. It didn't have any particular scent to it, meaning you can't trace it to anything, but it smells good. It smells like Greg. 

The apartment itself seems so much larger than I rememebered. It seemed like way too much space without someone to share it with.

It had taken me awhile to fall asleep, I remember. 

The king-size bed was so open, and I felt like an insular being in an ocean of blankets and sheets. I tried positioning the pillows in the shape of a person and snuggling with them. They smelled like Greg too, but it wasn't the same.

Sometime during the night I had reached out for his arm, but my hand grasped at merely a clump of air. My fingers dug into my palm, and my arm retreated back to my side. 

"What's the point" I thought. 

I ended up sleeping on the couch.

I dreamt about floating in darkness. There was nothing within thousands of feet around me, and my body was hot and sticky from the anxiety that I was so alone. I wondered if this was how Greg felt. Floating....nothingness...after awhile I saw a light, and I headed towards it. It took me forever, and I felt like I wasn't going anywhere. Finally, I found it, and Greg was standing there. He was smiling at me, but at the touch of my hand, he disappeared.

I'm not sure if I'm going to go to the hospital first thing today. Of course, I'm not going to skip out, but some abstinence might do me some good. Perhaps I'll go into work. Anthea can only manage so long before I'll be forced to return anyway. And, given how it's my birthday, I'd rather not spend it in regret.

But no matter where I go, the regret follows. 

Regret for what? I don't even know. I feel responsible for his safety, and I failed him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this one is a little bit silly, but I was trying to brighten the mood of an otherwise depressing topic.

I'm not sure going to work was my best decision either. My whole office is pretty much full of pictures of Greg and I from various occasions. I've been told many a time to tone it down for common courtesy, and I obliged to an extent, but the few frames that remain feel like a museum of artifacts reminding me of the guilt that I'm not at the hospital right now. 

I can just visualize Greg sitting upright in his bed and wondering where I am. Well, I guess that could be me just being optimistic. The truth is that he's probably asleep. Recent treatments have really taken a toll on him. It's probably for the best that he get some needed rest. 

My desk seems a lot larger than I remember, and the pile of paperwork isn't exactly what I hoped to come back to. But to be fair, who knows what I was really expecting. Work is work. The country needs me. The UK won't run itself. I swear, everything has gone to shit since I've been gone. It's not that people haven't been doing their jobs. It's just that everyone is distracted, and it's probably my fault. That's part of the reason I came back today as well.

And yet, I still find myself incapable of actually doing anything.

The files are staring up at me, (contracts, business statements, propositions, profiles) but I haven't gotten the urge to pick up a pen. There's a load of emails popping up on my computer screen, each one longer and more important than the last, but I have not clicked the mouse.There's a tray of biscuits and tea on the corner of my desk that I haven't touched although my stomach is aching for nourishment. When I arrived, I didn't even greet anybody, but walked past them as if they were merely apparitions floating in space. Or maybe I'm floating in space...somewhere between reality and god knows where. 

I haven't seen Anthea since I walked in. She had nodded in acknowledgement as I entered but I think she noticed my lack of interest in socializing and disappeared somewhere. I say disappeared because she tends to do that when I'm in a bad mood, and I literally do not see her for the better part of a week. My moods last a long time...not to say I'm in a "bad" mood right now. I'm not really feeling much of anything. Empty if I had to give it a word. But I guess that's enough for Anthea to give me my privacy. It's probably for the best, although I slightly wish there was somebody here if not to talk to then just to keep me company because I need somewhere to merely fill the space. 

Greg used to come in at random times during the week and surprise me with some goofy joke he came up with during the drive. 

"Ay Mycroft! Knock knock."

"Who's there?" I'd mumble trying not to laugh at the mere stupidity of knock-knock jokes.

"Doctor."

"Doctor....who..." Wait for it.

"Just the doctor!" There's that childish smirk. 

I must admit, it got annoying, especially when I was face first in an important matter, but seeing him reinforced happy feelings about myself and my life that I tend to forget easily.

I half expect him to burst in through the door laughing about how this whole thing was a joke to get me to reveal feelings to him that he hasn't heard since before we got married. He always did like hearing me say I love you just because it's like sandpaper across my lips. I can imagine him now, giggling his ass off, and I'd beat the shit out of him for scaring me so badly. 

"You fucking asshole!" I'd cry, but I'd be too relieved to see his stupid face to really do anything, but pull him close and squeeze him to the point of suffocation.

And then he'd give me a bouquet of flowers, and we'd sit on the couch in our apartment next to each other and snuggle so closely that we wouldn't even be two people anymore, but one giant clump of blankets and sweaters because it's getting chillier these days. 

Oh yes...

But nothing.

The door remains shut, and all I hear is the shuffling of people's feet on the outside. The outside where reality roams. 

One of the pictures on my desk is from an improv class the two of us took once. I was terrible at it, but Greg had a talent for making things up as he went along. Something about the plot always seemed realistic even if his acting was a little flawed. And I say flawed because he never actually made an effort to take things seriously, and he always said his dialogue in a voice that sounded like a little girl. But the class loved it regardless.

This picture was the "graduation" ceremony. Greg had received a medal with a smiley face on it, and I got a ribbon with participant written on it. It was probably the most embarrassing moment of my life, but my dumbo of a boyfriend found extreme joy in upstaging me in something for once. I gave him the satisfaction...

Looking back, I don't really understand why I chose to keep this of all pictures in my work setting. It seemed a little odd given the amount of ridicule I had received for my "participation"- for a better connotation. I guess it was because I love seeing Greg's smile. The pure happiness....that fucking grin.

The photo does give me an idea though. Maybe photographs weren't enough, but what if he was able to SEE and remember...we don't have any videos because I hate the sound of my voice, but what if we reenacted some of our best moments? Then maybe it just might spark some memories. It sounds a little ridiculous, I must admit. I mean, it's not a third grade project on Valentine's Day. We're dealing with a grown man whom I love very much and would do anything to have back. Key word: anything, and this just might be the key. If anything, it'll brighten his mood and make him feel something.

I whip out my phone from my pocket and immediately text John. I didn't expect him to agree to such an unusual idea so suddenly. Truthfully, I didn't really care if he did. John was not my main concern. Sherlock was. And if I knew Sherlock at all, he'd laugh in my face because it's a childish plan. But it's mine, and it just might work.

"I'll meet you in the lobby." ~ John Watson

"Anthea! I'm leaving!"

Anthea slips in through the door, her movements as small as possible and no eye contact is made.

"But sir? You just got here," she muttered.

"I'm not fitted for a work setting right now. Take care of my paperwork and have it ready for me for Monday." 

"Alright sir. Best wishes."

"Thank you. Get the car ready, would you?"

"Right away, sir."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Probably the last chapter for the next two weeks. Stupid final exams. This chapter is kinda goofy I must admit.

"Oh, Greg, I love you so much. Kiss me!" I don't know if I'm more insulted by the fact that Sherlock isn't even trying or the fact that I'm now worried I actually sound like that. 

I'm shocked really that my brother agreed to take on such a ridiculous request from his elder sibling. Number one, he never does favors for me. Number two, it is ridiculous. I feel silly just suggesting the thought, but I think it's genius. The only way to appeal to a crazy love-struck bastard is to stoop to that level. I've never been very romantic in the way that one would be expecting, and I owe this to Greg. Although, whether or not you consider reenacting moments of our lives to get him to remember them is romantic or a necessary action is up to you. I, for one, think there's a little bit of both in there. 

But back to Sherlock, I'm certain John made him. Sherlock would do anything for that man...

The hardest part of this project, subtracting Sherlock's attitude, is picking out moments that I think are strong enough to reach him. The engagement for sure, the wedding probably. But there are also the little things like the tickle fights and the evening dances in the kitchen before bed. Those small insignificant things....yet they mean so much. 

"Sherlock, please. Try at least," I roll my eyes at him, "It's for Greg."

"I still don't understand your interest in him."

"My interest in him?" I clench my fists, "He's my husband, and I love him."

"Oh really? I didn't know that..." He crossed his arms.

"Just..." I sigh, "Let's just do the evening dance scene." 

He doesn't move, and John agrees to fill in to show Sherlock what we are expecting of him. However, truthfully, I'd just prefer John to play the part for the actual performance, but Watson believes in family ties, and he thinks Sherlock and I need to get over the childish feud we've been involved in our entire lives for Greg's sake and our own. He's probably right, although I refuse to admit it. 

"Ok," I tell John, "So, I'll be cooking dinner, and Greg will come in," I pretend to cook something on an invisible stove, "You're Greg, so come in."

John pretends to open a door. 

"And you say..."

"Mhm...something smells good," he sniffs the air, "And it doesn't look half bad either." 

"Great, now walk closer to me."

I try to recreate my normal smirk, but I end up blushing and giggling like an idiot instead. John's acting really makes me think of Greg actually being here.

"You are talking about the food, right? Spaghetti, your favorite," I say.

"I might be," John steps even closer and wraps his arms around my waist as Greg would-the touch of his hands sends awkward shivers up my spine-"Although, I smell that new cologne around you. It's heaven." 

"You must have a good nose," I turn around to face him, but John's hands are still around me, "to be able to pick out that one cologne from the many others out there." 

"I can pick you out in a crowd. It's a strong scent. And I love it. Not to mention, I picked it out specifically for you." 

"Oh really?"

"Of course."

"Well ok, Mr. Creeper, instead of smelling me, how about we have a dance?" I pretend to turn the heat down on the fake stove so that the spaghetti wouldn't burn, and I laugh.

"I'll take you up on that," he put his hands on my shoulders. 

Honestly, I'm kind of impressed with John's acting. Even though I'm nervous as hell with all the touching and flirty talk (which, I guess, doesn't really affect me in my position because I'm always like that), John seems completely comfortable with the closeness. Why can't Sherlock just get over being such a baby for a few minutes? 

"You're a wonderful dancer," I tell John.

"Is that for Greg or me?" John whispers, "because it wasn't in the script." 

"Improvising John," I say, "But yes." 

"Well thank you."

"Alright, lovebirds break it up," Sherlock walks inbetween us, "I've seen enough."

"Are you willing to cooperate now?"

"You owe me for this, Mycroft" is all he says. 

"Ok then..." I don't look at him, but nod.

"Do you wanna do the proposal scene again?" John asks. 

"No," I say, "Skip the important stuff. Stick to the small stuff. I have a good feeling about this," I glare at Sherlock, but I have more confidence now after having run it through with John. "No more practicing. Improvise. Make it feel real." 

"Mycroft, do you really think this is going to work?" John asked.

"We can only hope."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I had some free time inbetween study sessions, and I am pretty much done because tomorrow's finals aren't too bad, so here's the last chapter! Thanks for keeping up with me and supporting me throughout this process! I really enjoyed all the nice comments. You guys make my life :)

I feel a lot more tired than I usually do. I'm not sure if it's this new medication they have me on or the stress because I'm trying so hard. I have made some progress, I've been told. Apparently recent experiences were good signs, but I still feel like I'm floating somewhere. 

I dreamed about Mycroft again last night. We were ice skating. I can't help but laugh even looking back because I was so terrible. I've never been able to ice skate. Or at least I think I've never been able to...but Mycroft was so sweet. He held on tightly to my arm and pulled me along. All the other couples....sorry, couples on the ice were perfectly in sync, side by side, and they made it seem so easy. It looked like they were gliding along the surface of the ice with no effort whatsoever. I felt like I was going to crash with each new stroke. But Mycroft held onto me, and, when I fell (which was a lot) he'd pull me right back up to my feet and kiss my cheek. His lips felt warm on my frozen skin. He did it briefly as to not draw attention to us, but on that one occasion when I fell and he tripped over on top of me...he didn't hold back. 

His lips were so soft- it was like kissing velvet. Being so close to him, I could smell the cologne on his neck (the cologne I bought him). I could feel the vibrations of his heart beating nervously. We could both feel the dozens of eyes staring at us, but nobody ever spoke a word. It was like silence in a theater when the audience is waiting for dialogue after a big kissing scene, and the two of us were in the spotlight. But the only person I was focused on was him. The ice underneath me chilled my spine, and I worried about Mycroft's skates slicing through my pants around my ankles, but neither of those things seemed to matter to me right then. I didn't want to stand up. I didn't want to keep skating. I didn't even want to close my eyes. I know it's traditional when kissing someone (and it's sort of awkward otherwise) but I just couldn't bare to be separated from him for a single second. 

It all felt so sincere, a 4D effect with me being able to experience every small insignificant detail as if I was really there, and, at the time, I couldn't even decide if I was or not. That's how real it is. And I find myself still thinking about the feel of his lips and how much I want to see if they really feel how I imagined them to be. Or maybe it was a memory. I would feel weird asking him such a personal request, however... He still feels like such a stranger. And yet, I feel so close to him as if we are really the same person, and I find myself in the situation of falling in love with him. But, again, what if it's me remembering? Because I can feel it-my heart hurts. But the only way I can explain it is that I am falling in love all over again. Not many people get that opportunity. To feel that sensation of a first love again. I don't really believe in destiny, but it could be some universal force keeping us together. 

It sounds a little ridiculous saying it out loud, but I don't know how else to summarize my conflicting thoughts. They cycle in my brain, and I can't distinguish between what I'm actually remembering and what I'm making up. Could I really be making some of this up?

Gosh, I'm so tired.

My eye lids keep drooping, and I feel like I am falling asleep again. In hindsight, it would probably do me some good, but I don't want to go to sleep. I don't want to dream anymore. I want to see Mycroft. I feel like I need to tell him something, but I don't know what. 

It's getting rather late. I've just about given up on him for the day. I don't blame him though. It'd be selfish to expect him to be at the hospital 24/7. 

"Greg?" It's Jamie's voice. 

"Hi," I mumble.

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Ya, those pain meds will do that to you," she says.

I nod. I keep forgetting about my physical injury. 

"Ya, when I broke my leg last year...woo those pills knock ya right out," she laughs.

"Has Mycroft come in at all today?" I ask, not meaning to be rude, but I am anxious, "I keep dozing. I hope I didn't miss him."

She frowns.

"No, you didn't miss him," she says and helps move me so she can fluff my pillows-suddenly I wince and I remember the pain. 

"He called earlier though," my eyes lit up.

"He did?"

"Ya, he said he'd be by later. I hope he shows up soon because it's nearly dinner time. The man needs some sleep, and he normally spends a few hours here. It being so late, god knows when he'll go home. Not that it is a bother or anything. I enjoy talking with him. It's just...his health is our concern too." 

I nod again. 

"I just hope he comes. I wanna talk to him."

"You always want to to talk to him," she says.

"Is that wrong?"

"No," she says, "It's actually a good thing. The more exposure to your life the better."

"I suppose..." My voice trails off. "But today is different. I had another dream."

"Really?" She is suddenly intrigued, "About what?" 

"It's nothing..." 

She sighs. 

"Well, knowing him, he'll pop in eventually," she manages a smile, "He's very devoted. You're a very lucky man."

I nod another time.

"I admire people that have what you two do. It's really special. Don't know a whole lot of people with relationships like that. The way he looks at you," she says, "You can really see it, ya know? I imagine you probably used to look at him that way too."

Used to...

"It'll come back, sweetheart. Love has no boundaries." 

She adjusts some things on my nightstand, and then bids me farewell. However, I hear her say something to someone in the hall on her way out. I assume it's just one of the other nurses, but then I hear laughter, and Mycroft walks in followed by Sherlock and John. 

"Sorry I'm late."

My heart skipped. And somewhere inside me, I see a light again.

-

(Myc)

"So how exactly are we going to do this?" John whispers to me, "Sherlock didn't exactly have a positive input before. What makes you think he'll do it now?" 

"We just have to try," I say, although I'm not too certain myself, "He said he'd cooperate. We'll just have to trust him."

Greg response is a laugh in the back of his throat. Sherlock pays no mind to us.

It was a little awkward explaining our idea to Greg, but he was actually ok with it. He seemed excited actually. Although when we arrived he seemed bothered by something. I was going to address it, but decided against it. He's in a hospital with amnesia, it's not like he's going to be overjoyed. Besides, he seems fine now. I worry though.

I take a deep breath.

Surprisingly Sherlock cooperates. He isn't as good at improvising as John was. He told me my hair looked halfway decent....probably the closest thing to a compliment I've ever heard escape his lips, but not exactly appropriate for this part. 

"It's cold out," he says, "You look cold," he hands me a jacket, but doesn't take the actual effort to put it on me.

I grab his hands and force them on my shoulders. I must admit it feels extremely wrong in more ways than one to have him touch me, and I am certain the two of us are internally screaming. My muscles literally twitch every time. Every touch is like a hot iron to my skin, but it's worth it, I suppose. The cause is worthwhile....however, I'm not exactly sure what its effect on Greg is currently. I can see he is intrigued in the performance, if you could call it that, and he seems to be enjoying himself with our bad acting, but I don't think it's actually doing anything. After the kitchen dancing scene, I just decide to cut it. 

"Why did you stop?" Greg asks.

"It's not doing anything. I'm just embarrassing myself," I'm laughing, but I'm breaking inside.

I feel foolish for thinking this might work. 

"Wait," Greg objects, "I like it."

"But what's the point?" I say.

I don't know whether to laugh or fall to my knees and cry out.

"Let's just go," John grabs my arm. "It's getting late." 

I hesitate, but walk over to Greg's beside and kiss him on the forehead. I really want to kiss him normally. I yearn for the feel of his lips, but what would be the purpose in that?

I feel really worthless right now. I just want to curl up in the corner and stay there.

"Don't go," Greg says, and he reaches up to caress my face.

I shiver. His fingers are cold.

"You're just not him," It feels like a knife through my heart to create these words, and I can't even force myself to look at him once I am certain I really said them.

"But I am," his words are pure, but meaningless. 

And I know he's telling the truth. I just can't force myself to believe it.

"I know. I'm just being dramatic. It was a dumb idea," I'm trying to be optimistic for his sake, but water is filling the corners of my eyes and flowing across, so I dare not blink for fear of it dripping and him knowing. "I should really get going. I'm exhausted." 

I rub my eyes.

"I wasn't dumb," he says, "I think it's sweet," he smiles.

The corner of my mouth curves up a little, and I pat his shoulder. 

"Goodnight, Greg." 

"Happy birthday," I hear him say once my back is turned.

"What?" 

"Happy birthday," he says, hesitantly.

"How did you know it's my birthday," my heart is skipping in my chest, but I try not to look too excited because somebody could've told him before I arrived; It could be nothing, and I'm not even sure if I heard him correctly.

Greg doesn't say anything. Suddenly, I become both fearful and angry and overjoyed and on the verge of crying all at the same time which is a very overwhelming combination. 

"How did you know it was my birthday?" I repeat, my voice raising. 

I know what he said. I'm certain, but how? 

"I...I don't know," he's not looking at me now. 

"How?!" 

John grabs my shoulder and attempts to calm me a bit because I'm heating, and that's the last thing anyone needs. However, it's too late now.

"No!" I yell at him, "He's in there! I know it!" 

"Mr. Holmes?" Jamie rushes in to see what the trouble is. "What's wrong?" 

"He said happy birthday! How did he know? Who told him?" 

"What?"

I turn to her and put my hands on her shoulders.

"Did you tell him?!"

"No, why are you so upset?"

"Who told him?!"

"Mycroft, what's going on?"

"He said happy birthday. Who told him it was my birthday?" I try to calm myself, "I just want to know."

"It could just be a relapse. Stuff like that happens. It's a process, Mycroft. Things come back in spurts. It's nothing."

"No," I say, "I know he's..."

I look over at Greg who seems guilty, almost ashamed he had even said anything. I feel terrible because I think I'm scaring him, but he's scaring me more.

"Greg? How did you know?" I ask again, lowering my voice and seeming more gentle. "Please, it's important."

Nobody stops me, and I take a step towards him. He doesn't seem to understand.

"Greg, please." 

I look him in the eyes, and he studies me. He whispers my name, and I can see his eyes venture towards my lips. They are scanning my mouth with extreme interest for a moment before they look back up to meet my gaze. Nobody in the room speaks. 

"Please," I mouth.

He lifts his head, his eyes studying my lips. It's like he's searching for something in his mind. Opening door after door, desperately looking. Before I know it, my mouth is touching his. I don't know who instigated it, but I don't even care. And now I can't fight back the tears. 

"Mycroft?" Jamie's hand touches my shoulder.

"Wait," I pull away from Greg and watch him intently. 

I'm nearly choking on all the words I'm holding back.

He's silent for a moment. 

"Mycroft" I don't know if it's a question or a statement or even just a thought being said out loud.

"Greg." 

Suddenly, I see him swallow hard, and I know. I know....

"Mycroft..." His teeth bite hard on his lip, and blood begins to drip.

"Come on," I say.

He bites harder and scrunches his forehead. 

"Mycroft, is that really you?" 

"Yes," I laugh through my tears, "Baby, it's me."

It is like a shade is lifted from his eyes, and I can see the normal glow again. 

"Oh thank god," I wrap my arms around him, and I feel his hands wrap around me.

John, Jamie, and even Sherlock retreat from the room.

"I love you so much," I mutter into his shoulder.

He says nothing, but his head rests on my shoulder, his arms squeezing me close now. I feel some wet drip on my neck. He sniffles.

"Mycroft."


End file.
